A New Legend: A Short Story

by Joshua Scribner

  No. That’s based on an assumption that might not be true. I might live if I give him what he wants.

  Was that the story of his life? He gave people what they wanted, a good buzz, or a sloberknocking drunk, and he got to live in return, got to live a fun life in return.

  Andre poured the drink, nervous again, spilling a lot. He hoped the man didn’t get mad at him for wasting it.

  This shot got the man to kind of twisting on his stool, slowly. Andre thought that if he could get close to the man, he’d be able to knock him from that stool. But he wasn’t going to try anything like that again. The pain in his knees and in his back reminded him of the frivolity of such acts.

  More color came to the man’s skin.

  Now he really is approaching sick person color.

  “More,” the man said. This time he hadn’t whispered, but it had been a very forced voice, low and phlegmy.

  Andre poured him another drink and fed it to him. The man moved his legs, as if testing them. And now he did just look like a sick person.

  Without the man even asking, Andre gave him another shot. Things got even stranger, so strange that Andre had to consider the possibility that he was dreaming. He quickly wrote that possibility off, though. This just didn’t feel like a dream. There was far too much lasting pain, and he had a continuous train of thought. But this was unreal as it got. Not only did more of the man’s color come back; he sprouted hair. It grew right before Andre’s eyes, and all over the stranger. But the hair on his upper torso was very weird. It was a strange mixture of red and black.

  A shot later and Andre realized the upper torso hair wasn’t hair at all. It was cotton, and it wasn’t connected to the man. No, it was a shirt growing around him. Andre didn’t look over the counter, but he suspected that if he did, he’d see the pair of pants this man was growing. The man was moving his arms again, in front of him. The movements reminded Andre of exercises he did at the gym. The man was warming up, testing things. He didn’t look like he was preparing to torture someone. He looked like he was preparing for simply being alive.

  “Give me more whiskey,” the man ordered, and though his voice was still rough and low, it sounded normal, a rugged man’s voice. Andre followed orders and then watched more of the man’s clothes grow. The man had black hair, long and clean. His face was covered with a neat trim beard, black but with snow. His blue eyes were the most intent Andre had ever seen, like this man was completely focused on one thing, a man who knew what he wanted.

  “Give it to me,” the man said.

  Andre went to pour a drink.

  “No, give it to me.”

  Andre paused for a couple of seconds. Then he figured out what the man wanted. He sat the bottle on the bar.

  He watched the man guzzle it like a college student might guzzle beer, or like an athlete might guzzle Gatorade at the end of a long run.

  Finished, the man slammed the bottle on the bar, shattering it. He grinned like the most confident man Andre had ever seen. He was now very dark, like a person who lived in the sun. He wore a plaid shirt. He lifted a ten gallon hat to his head. Andre hadn’t seen where that thing had grown from.

  His eyes. They were so incredible, like nothing Andre had seen. Yes, they were eyes that were possible in the normal world as Andre knew it, but they were something that probably would have made the man famous. The man hopped from his seat at the bar, and then, before Andre had a chance to assess him, had the barrel of a silver pistol in Andre’s face.

  There was a crash and Andre thought he was dead. But if he was dead, he was still standing there with a silver revolver in his face.

  “The shotgun hit the floor,” the cowboy said. “Coming alive makes me lose those powers, but alive I’m very fast. You understand?”

  Andre did understand. He’d never seen a person move as fast as the man. In fact, the gun-drawing motion had been so fast that Andre really hadn’t seen it at all. Now this man was asking if Andre knew that the man could still easily kill him.

  Andre nodded.

  “Good,” the man said. “If you change your mind, you can make a move at that shotgun or for the door at any point you like. But I wouldn’t recommend it. You can let him in with your knees blown out, or you can just walk over to the door and let him in.”

  Andre didn’t know who he was supposed to let in. But he understood what it meant to have his knee caps shot out.

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

  The man nodded. “You’re not near the man your daddy was. Had to blow out a chunk of his thigh to get him to cooperate. Would rather have killed him, but he had to be the one to let him in. Had to blow off two of your granddaddy’s fingers.”

  Andre remembered seeing the scar on his dad’s thigh. The old man had said he’d shot himself cleaning his gun. Granddad had used a gardening accident to explain the missing fingers.

  The cowboy seemed to study him for a few seconds. “Didn’t talk to you about it, did they. Just like you won’t talk about it. If you do, one of us will come back for you.’

  The cowboy looked past Andre. Andre thought he was looking at the clock. The cowboy walked out of the room into the dart room. He went behind the wall and was out of sight. Andre still wasn’t about to make a break for it. His Dad had survived this from the sound of it, and so had his grandpa. He already had one up on them. He had yet to be shot.

  Andre didn’t know what he was supposed to do now, and he was afraid to ask. So he did what came natural to him. He stayed behind the bar. Andre didn’t drink too much himself, which was another thing his dad had taught him.

  Yup. That’ll work, Dad. Warn me about how easy it is for a bartender to get hooked on what he pedals, but nevermind the cowboy who’s going to show up and kick my ass and probably scar me for life if he doesn’t go ahead and kill me anyway.

  Andre did two shots of Jack in rapid succession. They didn’t make him feel more alive. But they did take the edge off his fear.

  A knock came at the front door, only it wasn’t as a knock should be. No, this knock made the door rattle twice.

  He crept from behind the bar and then up to the door. He thought the door must be unlocked, now that the cowboy had lost that power.

  “Who’s out there?” Andre shouted. He was very aware that the cowboy was hearing him right now. But it was obvious the cowboy wanted to keep out of sight for the time being, and he probably didn’t want to be heard either. What the hell was on the other side of this door?

  “Pest control,” a man’s voice replied, then chuckled. He sounded very southern, Georgia or Tennessee maybe. “I understand you got a pest, old boy. Comes around every twenty-fifth year.” He gave a lively laugh, like a good old boy at the bar, the harmless one who would never pick a fight with anyone, but who everyone would defend if someone started a fight with him. “That’s not right. He’s always around. He’s stuck in your bar, but he materializes every twenty-five years, and if you feed him whiskey, like your great granddad did the night I took his first life, then he returns to that state. Killed that pest twenty-five years ago for your daddy. Killed him fifty years ago for your granddaddy. Can’t say I did your great granddaddy any favors, though. You see, I’m a bit of a legend. And wherever I go, someone wants to beat me, because if you beat me, you become me, and I’ll live forever, unless I lose. So every new place I go to, I bring trouble.” He laughed cheerfully again. “Luckily, there are a lot of places I get to return to, because there’s a lot of old boys who want to beat me so bad they take the twenty-five year offer instead of entering the afterlife.”

  Andre was silent. Could he believe this? Why not? After what he’d already seen tonight, what wasn’t believable?”

  “Now, I’m no vampire, old boy. But a lot of the same rules apply. I can’t come in uninvited.” Another chuckle. “Your daddy let me in, but now you’re the owner. If I’m coming in, it’ll be by your invite.”

  There was no other way out. Andre opened the door.
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  The man who stood there couldn’t have been five feet tall. He had a funny shaped head and the skin on his face sagged over his smile. He looked like he sounded, one of those good old boys that was ugly, but who could make you happy just by the happy look on his face. He wore a cowboy hat like the other cowboy, but much smaller. He was skinny under his plaid shirt and blue jeans. He wore boots that were probably a kid’s size. He had the biggest hands Andre had ever seen, but that might have been just by proportion. The gun on his hip was pretty big too.

  “Well,” he said, never losing his smile.

  Andre took a few seconds to realize he’d not invited him in, then said, “Come in.”

  The short cowboy came in and strolled up to the bar. He took a stool there, and without looking back said, “Could I trouble you for a beer from the draught. Don’t care what flavor, just as long as it’s from the draught.”

  Andre thought it odd this otherwise friendly man hadn’t looked at him when he asked for the beer, but once he got behind the bar, he thought he understood. The man was looking into the mirror behind the bar. In it, he’d be able to see the opening to the dart room.

  My God. He knows where the tall cowboy is.

  Andre got him his beer and slid it down. The cowboy caught it without removing his eyes from the mirror. He then took a big swig and his smile grew inhumanly big, but still delightful somehow.

  “Boy how I love me a beerski.”

  He downed the beer with the next swig, then slid the mug back. “I’d be much obliged.”

  Andre drew him another, then slid it back.

  Was this the way it would be? Did Andre need to feed this one drink after drink too?

  “Yours has always been one of my favorite bars. Suppose it would be long gone if I hadn’t come here. But once I go to a place, once I win, and once the loser makes his deal with the devil, then that place will always prosper, and its owner will always prosper too.” He laughed, still watching the mirror. “Your Great Granddaddy was a good enough man. But he was dumb and ugly. His son wasn’t ugly, though, nor the son after that or you. Reel em in at will, don’t ya. And you never are short on cash. Bet you don’t have the slightest itch to leave here.”

  Andre felt his jaw drop open. Was it true? Had this man brought a curse, or rather, a charm to this bar and its owners?”

  A chance glance showed Andre that he wouldn’t be feeding this man drink after drink, at least not before it went down. Tall Cowboy was standing in the open space to the dart room. Short Cowboy had his back to the other, but watched him in the mirror all the same. From the looks in their eyes, they both knew what the other knew. Andre wondered if he should get down. Bullets would soon fly, and possibly a lot of glass. But he couldn’t look away. He knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t see what happened next.

  Tall Cowboy moved his hands to his holstered guns. Short Cowboy made no reaction to this. Andre couldn’t help but envy his level of confidence. Andre felt like he could puke, and thought Short Cowboy might be able to prevent that by simply placing his hands on his own guns. When Short Cowboy went for his beer Andre wanted to scream out.

  He looked at Tall Cowboy who also seemed to notice what Short Cowboy had done. The taller man lifted his guns.

  Andre might have thought the shots fired were one shot and its echo, but the results begged to differ. Tall Cowboy stood there with two hands held up. Missing from those hands were the two pistols he’d wanted to kill Short Cowboy with.

  Andre’s gaze went to where Tall Cowboy’s gaze was. Short Cowboy had turned on his stool. In one hand he held a smoking pistol. In the other hand, he held the mug over his mouth. He finished off the beer, then, without looking away from his opponent, tossed the mug to Andre.

  “Can I trouble ya?” Short Cowboy asked.

  Andre glanced at Tall Cowboy on time to see his head jerk with the force of the blast. Blood splattered in the air and hit the floor after Tall Cowboy did.

  Andre looked at Short Cowboy who smiled and winked at him. Andre went to draw the man another beer.

  “It’s done then,” Andre said.

  Short Cowboy took another swig. “Let me get a few more of these and I’ll run over the rules for you.”

  “You mean like how I can never tell anyone about this, and how I need to figure out a way to hide any of the mess or explain it away. And I need to have a son to turn the bar over to.”

  Short Cowboy gave a now trademark chuckle. “Sounds like you got it figured out. The rest will take care of itself. But if you’d be so kind, I’d like to have a few more anyway.”

  Now Andre laughed. He was so glad he could laugh again, much less still breathe. “You have as many as you like. Bar doesn’t close for you.”

  After another inhuman smile, Short Cowboy lifted his mug. The bullet from the shot that rang out crashed through that mug, but not before crashing through his head. The hero fell to the floor as dead as Andre had thought his opponent had been.

  Andre didn’t want to, but thought he had to look. Tall Cowboy stood in the opening to the dart room again. He was at enough of a profile that Andre could see the hole in his cheek. He could even see inside the man’s mouth, where the shot had shattered and scattered teeth. Tall Cowboy’s tongue had been obliterated and Andre could see the rest of the way through his mouth. Tall Cowboy wasn’t looking at Andre. He stood there, his breath deep and labored, and stared down at the opponent he’d taken out with a surprise shot.

  Andre had seen this man come more alive once. Now he saw his wounds heal. His tongue grew back, and teeth grew out of his gums. If this was a painful process, Tall Cowboy didn’t let on. Then again, Andre supposed this man was a hundred times tougher than Andre would ever be. The hole filled in like thick gravy recovering its shape after someone took a ladle full. Finished recovering, Tall Cowboy began to laugh, low, but victorious. He did so for about a minute. In that time Andre thought of sneaking out, but he was too afraid to move. Finally, Tall Cowboy spoke, but not to Andre.

  “I was fast already, but I knew I wasn’t gonna move my hands faster than you. For twenty-five years I practiced moving my head fast enough that you wouldn’t know how your shot hit.”

  Andre couldn’t help but be impressed by that. The man had known he would be shot and be shot in the face at that, yet he’d been willing for that to be a part of his plan.

  Tall Cowboy finally looked at Andre, and when he did, he did so with a raised gun.

  “I’ve been here, unseen, but watching you, for years, just as I watched your dad and two generations before him. Now I might just get to shoot you.”

  Andre closed his eyes. It was all he could do. Seconds later, he heard Tall Cowboy speak again. “Damn it. I can feel him. His presence has returned here. He took the damn deal.”

  Andre opened his eyes to a hateful snarl.

  Tall Cowboy walked up so close to him that Andre could smell his putrid breath. “You know the rules?”

  Andre did know them. He nodded.

  Tall Cowboy backed up a couple of steps. He pointed a gun at Andre again. He held it there for a few seconds, then said, “I’ll see your boy in twenty-five years. You’re a little bit late making him, so get to it.”

  With that, Tall Cowboy, the new legend, the new immortal, left out the front door.

  Andre blew out a big sigh of relieve. He looked around, thinking of all he needed to do. He’d close the bar today so he could clean it up. He’d find some excuse. Right now, he had a body to dispose of. It wasn’t like most corpses, he supposed. It appeared to be turning rapidly to dust. He’d sweep it up in a little bit.

  He supposed he’d wait a night or two, but then he’d get to work on that son. He had something he had to not tell him.

  About the Author

  Joshua Scribner is the author of 16 published novels and over 100 short stories. He currently lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.